Not a question.      A lever you press 
against the stone of your sorrow

to lift the world

as the grungy singer
on the subway platform

undoubtedly did  

with her paisley pants and purple bandana
and beat-up fiddle scratching a few notes

that sent rats dashing toward the third rail

and rattling her black tambourine
with most of the metal discs missing

which served anyway as a measure
of the increments between

one brake-screeching train and the next,

and after the loudspeaker announced
the next one’s approach,

she flashed her teeth and poured forth 
a soprano so controlled so forceful 

it could have come from nowhere other than
her decision to make it so

to make it a happiness

that lifted the day above itself
and opened the subway doors 

and opened the listeners before we stepped over  
the gap between platform and car

and rattled off into the dark.